


A Man Apart

by hhavenh



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: M/M, NSFW, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhavenh/pseuds/hhavenh
Summary: Volke’s eyes are molten in the low light. Like steel smoldering in a forge. There’s uncertainty in both, in recognizing the right moment to move forward without knowing the burning bite of flame. Steel is always more predictable than this man, but this night is already over if Geoffrey doesn’t eventually dare.He reaches.Palm open, breath held.That Volke does not immediately retreat is a victory all itself.
  ---





	

“Don’t.”

And just like that words die in Geoffrey’s throat.

Nothing important. Just a greeting, a spoken pleasure to again have such company. Geoffrey lets them fade without argument. Just smiles instead. A faint curve of his lips that can’t impart half of what he would wish.

He offers a hand from his seat, but Volke doesn’t reach back.

That alone gives tell of what sort of night they will have.

Already that weathered mask is low but such is hardly an invitation to touch. Difficult not to try. Volke is near enough that Geoffrey could take his waist in hand, could pull him to his lap and mouth at the taut skin where his throat and jaw come together.

On any other night he might.

Instead he rests his head against the cushioned back of the chair and considers the shadows cast by Volke's long bangs in the candlelight. They hide his eyes and sweep down his jawline.  More gather where his collar is folded low and stretch the length of his jacket, claiming every bit of him in a way Geoffrey is rarely able.

Even so close, Volke seems separate. A shade himself when he's like this.

Volke’s knees hit the floor, and Geoffrey can’t help the anticipation that warms his gut.

He is almost hard by the time the placket of his trousers is loosened and folded down. Volke’s fingers are steady. Swift and strong, if also chilled. A temporary discomfort, one soon eclipsed by the warm wetness of his mouth.

To breathe quietly is an effort. One that forces Geoffrey to tighten his hands and jaw against the rising insistence to make heard his appreciation.

He knows better.

There are rules, ones never spoken aloud. Only learned the times that Volke appears before him like this. When he requires this quiet, this soundless intimacy. Rules are necessary for Geoffrey to keep himself in check, to allow Volke the time to bridge the separation between man and myth. There are not even so many to follow. Just have to let him stop if he likes. Can’t touch his face either. Or rock up against the wet heat of his mouth. Shouldn’t pet his hair, shouldn’t drag a heavy hand through the thick strands. Can’t say his name, or let him know that every measured slide of his lips is perfection.

Volke isn’t ready for words, for what it is to exist again outside of silence.

Not yet.

Patience is not always within Geoffrey’s reach but these nights he has no choice. Not if he would rather spend the next hours with any company beyond his own. Doesn’t make choking his voice any easier, or make it less a trial to force himself to be still when every beat of his heart urges him to move. When he wants so desperately to shift, to _rise_ , to press up past the wet luxury of Volke’s lips at his own pace.

But that would just be cruel.

Ungrateful, when Volke doesn’t even enjoy this.

No matter how dedicated his tongue or the way his lips stretch in the most incredible accommodation, this closeness just isn't something he appreciates. Whether on his knees or the one being serviced. Fact determined through watching him in the act. Through the way his legs have gone taut whenever Geoffrey’s tried to repay the favor.

This is never for himself, is nothing but payment.

No, more an apology.

An offering.

Something to occupy Geoffrey’s time while Volke reaccustoms himself to the presence of another. Of someone with no interest in doing him harm. In demanding of his ability or blood.

Geoffrey doesn’t need to be occupied. He would assure Volke that this isn’t necessary. Would make it so plain, so clear, pressing every word against his throat, against his heart and every lily white scar, until Volke knew without the slightest doubt that Geoffrey needed nothing but his presence.

He would, but Volke runs every time he tries.

Geoffrey won’t risk that tonight.

Wouldn’t ever, but sometimes he is rash. Sometimes he forgets the rules, or thinks himself beyond them.

Sometimes he just doesn’t have the patience to be still; to be passive and unfeeling until Volke again has the constitution to weather him unaltered.

Tonight he has that patience.

Too many days have passed without this man near. Too many nights and mornings spent bereft of Volke’s quiet company. Geoffrey wants to reach, to _touch_ , to stroke familiar flesh and know again the cool depths of auburn hair. His hands crave, they itch, they need so badly to do more than fist around the arms of this chair while Volke encases his cock in unimaginable heat.

Selfish needs. Ones that Geoffrey is desperate to ignore.

Especially now, when familiar hands begin to creep up his thighs.

A slow reach.

Even hesitant.

Reluctance makes Volke’s fingers light, his palms nearly unfelt. Evidence that he’s rushing. Forcing himself past the disinclination to touch and be touched in turn.

Proof that Volke wants, even if his body is unwilling to let him have.

Would be beyond easy to take his hands. To ghost over his knuckles and the back of his gloves. To sweep all the way up his arms and the back of his throat, until Geoffrey could push fingers through his hair and whisper his name. This still silence can only be borne so long, patience worn so incredibly thin with every second spent motionless between Volke’s sliding lips.

A torture, if one that did not let blood or bruise flesh.

Maybe Volke realizes the same.

A moment later he pulls off untouched, lips red and glistening in the warm light of the candle.

Geoffrey makes a sound, not that he means to. A hum so quiet that he’s not even sure it leaves his throat. Hard to resist when presented with such a sight.

Volke’s eyes are molten in the low light. Like steel smoldering in a forge. There’s uncertainty in both, in recognizing the right moment to move forward without knowing the burning bite of flame. Steel is always more predictable than this man, but this night is already over if Geoffrey doesn’t eventually dare.

He reaches.

Palm open, breath held.

That Volke does not immediately retreat is a victory all itself.

His eyes are dark. Lidded. Low and trained on Geoffrey’s approach. His hands are heavier for a moment, his fingers tighter.

But then they aren’t. Volke takes Geoffrey’s hand with one of his own, presses near as he can. His cheek is soft, stubble long enough not to be sharp.

Geoffrey doesn’t speak yet, won’t risk wrecking this quiet. Not when they are on the brink, the very cusp, of ending this lonely existence.

Lonely for him at least.

Can’t claim the same of Volke. He is, has always been, an unknown.

Even without his mask Volke is a man apart, cast more in marble or stone than the flesh and feeling of one who lived and breathed. Pleasure or satisfaction seldom takes reign of his face, uncertainty an emotion even rarer. More does unease exist in his hands, in the curl of his fingers and the tension of his wrist.

Truths all, but sometimes his eyes are wide and sharp. And so intent on Geoffrey’s hands, on his feet, like a wild beast expecting with every still moment for the inevitable violence to erupt.

He’s not so wary now, but they aren’t far from that strangeness.

The barest misstep could plunge them over that dreaded edge.

To be close to this man isn’t always so difficult, but sometimes Volke appears armed with more weapons than can be seen. Sometimes he just can’t span the distance between who he is and what he does.

At least not by himself.

Geoffrey exhales past the frustrated rush of his blood and leans forwards until he can touch Volke’s forehead with his own, “Warm me up?”

Dressing desire like a task always makes this easier. Makes this less self-indulgent, as if every act is done more in accordance with Geoffrey's wants than Volke’s own. A trick that Geoffrey took too long to learn.

The unease disappears between one breath and the next.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the disquiet only submerges deeper than what Geoffrey can see. Deeper than what he can feel, than what Volke is willing to lay bare.

Regardless, he’s not the same now. Not even half so unsure.

Volke pushes from the floor with seamless grace, dominion of Geoffrey’s lap taken with the least hesitation. There is no fresh tension evident when Geoffrey takes his waist in hand, or as those many layers are stripped away. Volke leans back far enough to shuck his jacket, even his gloves and the straps that hold his knives. Every piece falls to the floor, Volke’s bandana following when he forces fingers up through his bangs. There’s a scar to the left of his temple they’ve never spoken of, a pale scratch that stretches past his hairline. The marks of his skin are not few, but this one has always made Geoffrey the most curious.

Of all the Fireman’s scars, what makes this one worth the effort to hide?

Geoffrey’s not foolish enough to broach the topic tonight.

Instead he shifts forward until he is sat on the edge of the chair. There's room for Volke to be so near as he likes then. For his thighs to bracket Geoffrey’s waist while his arms wind tight above. One hand takes claim of Geoffrey’s hair as the other fists in the looseness of his house coat.

He’s still cold. Still chilled in more ways than Geoffrey truly knows how to warm.

Doesn’t matter. Nothing does, not even the rules. They fell apart like wisps of smoke the moment this new nearness was allowed. Now Geoffrey can drag his fingers down the thickness of Volke’s thighs and bite at the contour of his throat. He can breathe Volke’s name into the delicate shell of his ear and rock up against the crux of his legs in rising need. Geoffrey’s abandoned cock is still slick, still swollen and insistent as it moves against Volke’s crotch.

He isn’t firm yet, but they’ve time.

There is nothing Geoffrey would rather spend his evening doing than imparting pleasure on one still so unused to the attention.

Moving against one another is nothing foreign. Irrevocable fact, but on nights like this it seems as if there is nothing Volke counts as familiar. He is unused to touch, to grasps that give no pain. His hands clench sharp and sudden before they flinch back from bruising tightness. His lips won’t part until Geoffrey whispers pleasure against them, until he splays each finger against the small of Volke’s back and holds him so very close.

To stand is not a conscious decision. Action erupts before thought, insistence that rises from Geoffrey’s bones. From his heated blood. His palms press firm and secure against either side of Volke’s thighs, this weight borne with familiar ease.

Geoffrey starts towards his bed and turns for a kiss.

He doesn’t get one.

Volke is still.

Uncertain now. Unease told in the sharpness of his shadowed eyes and the pressure of each finger. In the morning Geoffrey’s shoulders will be bruised. Faint dashes of color seen in the mirror that will be forgotten by noon. More felt will be the echoes of a pressed thumb below his collarbone on either side. A remnant of the tension that Volke has clearly not yet cast away.

Tension that won’t fade at all if Geoffrey missteps again.

Just has to slow down.

Volke can rush himself but Geoffrey knows better than to attempt that same. A mistake, so much of a mistake, but Geoffrey’s been here before.

He just has to fix this.

To distract Volke from himself.

Never an easy task, but Geoffrey can do nothing but try, “Aren’t you cold?”

An unnecessary question. Something to draw Volke’s attention. To remind him of why he came, of where he is. Held aloft in Geoffrey's arms, safe and unseen in Geoffrey's chambers, mere steps from the known comfort of Geoffrey’s bed.

All fact, but Volke is still so uncertain. So cold.

Of course he is, he _always_ is. To claim otherwise would be a lie. Geoffrey forever knows without asking, even without words. There is so much constant about the Fireman, about Volke, about the midway between one and the other. He is intelligent in ways that Geoffrey can’t fathom, enduring in pain and unflinching in his methods. He is the epitome of efficiency, of ability and competence. But for all that he is the Fireman, a man so legend at his profession that he is the very _definition_ , he still lacks. Still exists with this void that gold and repute will not fill. A void that chills his flesh. That cools his blood and makes the warmth of others too much to bear.

Geoffrey is no exception. Not until after he’s held still. Until he’s held quiet and let Volke recall what it is to give his hand without fearing what Geoffrey might give in turn.

Sometimes it takes him the entire night to find that ease.

Sometimes he doesn’t find it at all.

Tonight he won’t, not unless Geoffrey can quit treading on the threads of his tension.

Volke eyes are still so intent, but no complaint is given when Geoffrey attempts another step. The tight clasp of his shoulders is even gentled before Volke releases him entirely. Instead he just circles Geoffrey’s throat with his arms and lets his head go slack. A soft weight against Geoffrey’s temple that is a midway between permission and exhausted apathy.

Should have noticed he was tired.

Makes his temperament less of a surprise.

Geoffrey would forgo all this, would lay Volke against the sheets and encourage him to rest, to attempt attainment of that always elusive relaxation. He’d step away for a moment and take himself in hand, release then found from the frustrated heat clinging to his spine. He would do so immediately, without a single complaint, if he thought Volke actually preferred to be left alone.

He wouldn’t have gone to his knees if he did. Wouldn’t ever try to drown his chill and isolation beneath Geoffrey’s attention.

That fact, even if getting him to the point of accepting any attention is so much of an endeavor.

Unmeant impatience lengthens Geoffrey’s stride. The opaque curtains around his bed envelop them easily when he presses through. Both his knee and hand sink into the mattress as he leans forward, Volke let down with the same care and attention that was once given a queen.

A truth that only Geoffrey knows.

His neck is released, Volke's arms lethargic as they fall away. Even spread like this he isn't half so disheveled as Geoffrey intends to make him. His lips are an exception, the brief color a greater darkness against the rest of his shadowed skin. A distraction from the task at hand, when all Geoffrey can then think on is the sensation of his length sliding between them.

His cock is somehow heavier. Thick and insistent where it juts from the still open placket of his trousers.

Goddess, but he wants.

He wants so _badly._

Volke must see. He must know how desperate Geoffrey is to again stroke the hard planes of his body. He doesn’t protest as his boots are loosened and tugged away. He even lifts his hips and undoes his belt when Geoffrey turns attention to his trousers. Mere moments more and he is bare, the whole of him a strange glory to behold.

Maybe only because Geoffrey is so sure that he's the only one allowed to.

Not that he has any proof of that, or the desire to ask. The feeling is enough, the maybe knowledge that Geoffrey is the one individual in all of Tellius that can claim some aspect of the Fireman as his own.

Another truth that only Geoffrey knows. Even if one with no evidence.

But then that isn't quite true. Not really.

Volke has so few tells, but even those few speak bounds of his affection. The sudden warmth of his eyes when Geoffrey manages to surprise him with some word or token. The red shyness that will sweep up his jaw and cheeks when raw sincerity is just too much for him to bear. The rare consideration shown when he will allow Geoffrey to be aware of his presence before all others.

All marks of something, even if not something Geoffrey is sure how to name.

Not anymore.

He’d thought himself loved once. Had been so sure of that as he had of the goddess' unending mercy. It's almost humorous to consider how both were proven wrong one after the other.

Lessons all, though of one Geoffrey is far more bitter. If only because of how long he'd wasted beneath the sway of a love proven false. A mistake he won't make again, when disappointment can be forever thwarted if he just refuses to let adolescent expectations eclipse the realities of the world.

Volke is a reality. One unlooked for, but one so dearly treasured nonetheless. For few others would Geoffrey attempt this patience.

For few others would it be so necessary.

Truth, but the reward is beyond worth the effort. Especially now, when Volke beckons him close with a slowly curled finger.

Geoffrey lets fall his clothes even as he climbs atop the mattress and moves near. His housecoat slides off the edge of the bed, his slippers and trousers kicked away with the least care. Geoffrey barely has his shirt tossed before he crawls up between Volke’s bent legs, claim then taken of his reddened lips.  

There’s so little shy about Volke once they reach this point. He arches up against Geoffrey’s skin and presses back into the hand gripping his hair. His reaches are no more hesitant, each hand lifting to stroke the length of Geoffrey’s back and down his sides. He exhales so hot and heavy when his lips are left, as Geoffrey lowers his chin to suck at the skin under Volke's jaw. A favored spot, one that Geoffrey will sometimes mark with his mouth and teeth, primal satisfaction achieved by something so small.

Maybe it is only that Volke allows him to leave such visible claim, no matter that any mark left is always covered beneath his collar and mask.

Gratifying regardless.

As is the growing firmness of a cock against Geoffrey’s stomach. Evidence that it is not his body alone that burns, that _craves_ this shared heat.

Geoffrey is far from selfless, but he’s not certain he could take of this dear man without knowing that Volke too took some pleasure in the act. To be wanted in turn is just so much a validation. Even a relief, to know with such certainty that Geoffrey is doing something right.

He’s honestly not sure he’d be told otherwise.

In daylight Volke is a man of amused eyes and brief smiles, one soft in affection but severe in expectation. To speak his mind is nothing shied from; his professional affairs forever conducted without compromise of his few principles. But when the Fireman is no more, that shroud often cast aside with far greater ease than tonight, there isn’t always so assertive a Volke that remains.

To name him meek would be false. More he is...unwilling to part with his own wants, or even his aversions. Three months of treating him with market-fresh licorice passed before Geoffrey’d found out how much Volke absolutely hated the taste. It had taken far longer to determine that Gallian tobacco was much more appreciated than what was imported from the south. Both admittances that Geoffrey had pulled from Volke hand over fist, as though even such inconsequential preferences were secrets too dear to part with.

Aggravating at the time, but thought on fondly now. Both just more proof of Volke’s affection. Appreciation always such a constant, even if that meant quietly choking down sickeningly sweet licorice every time it was presented.  

Geoffrey’s never known someone to be so defensive on behalf of his feelings.

Maybe Elincia had at one time. When infatuation had been deemed the same as love, and every moment spent in her smile had warmed him as thoroughly as would the radiance of the sun.

Geoffrey won’t mistake love again. Even if the briefest sight of Volke’s skin gone dark with shy pleasure razes his body in so whole a rapture. No matter that every word spoken between them burrows so deeply in his chest, as if there lays both heart and home together.

No doubt he is a coward, but Geoffrey just can’t weather that ache once more; the throbbing despair of devotion unshared. 

Elincia might have broken him in ways too numerous to count, but Geoffrey’s so sure that Volke could shatter him entire.

Volke won’t tonight. Won’t ever if Geoffrey is cautious, if he leashes his eagerness to be near and curbs the endless esteem that spawns ever ready at the tip of his tongue. Volke can suspect what he likes, if he suspects at all, but so long as Geoffrey is silent, so long as he holds this surging adoration closer than he holds Volke himself, then he won’t be wrecked again. Not by this man, and not by any that ever lay in his place should the day come that Volke decides himself weary of Geoffrey’s attention.

That-, that is just a terrible thought. Stressful and depressing in every measure.

Even unnecessary when Volke is beneath him in such a state. He arches into every stroke and writhes up against Geoffrey’s thigh. His clever fingers thread through Geoffrey’s hair and his lips are never far. Volke is still so quiet, more shadow than man, but he so clearly wants. He needs, he craves, he _thirsts,_ and Geoffrey is just so shamefully eager to give him every satisfaction.

One more searing kiss and Geoffrey leans to the side, anticipation tightening his chest. The bedside cabinet is an easy reach, the air outside the curtains cold and jarring when he thrusts an arm through in search of-.

Geoffrey starts when laughter erupts in the hall.

The sound is brief, hushed almost immediately by another. Servants, the voices familiar even if he can't presently recall either ones’ name.

Doesn’t matter. Already that hated tension returns beneath him. It spreads across Volke with the swiftness of a spring storm. All of him stills, even his breath. His grip is less, his hands almost completely raised from Geoffrey’s skin. A precursor to retreat, to escape from imagined threats. He doesn’t relax even as the steps fade, that needed silence soon returned.

It somehow seems heavier in wake of the lapse.

The curtains fall closed after Geoffrey retracts his arm, the sought phial left to rest on the bedding. He doesn't let his weight back down, isn’t certain he should. No matter how frequent their closeness Geoffrey is never truly sure how to handle this man, often driven far more by gut and daring than hardened fact. Especially when Volke is this visibly discontent. He won’t even look at Geoffrey now, his dark eyes trained on the canopy above in such mounding frustration. Almost as if he’d forgotten that the rest of the world still existed beyond the curtains.

He just needs to forget again.

Geoffrey drops himself slowly. First his hips, then his stomach and shoulders, every opportunity given for Volke to twist himself away if needed. That he doesn’t yet is no guarantee he won’t. More telling is when he allows Geoffrey to slowly take his hands, when he lets their fingers weave in a long held familiarity. Volke will know this touch if he knows any. Undeniable when these hands have fought together, when they have bled side by side. When they once glowed golden with holy light and brought ruin to a woken goddess. “I’ve got you.”

But saying it is rarely enough.

Sometimes Volke acts like he can’t tell lie from truth, suspicious of every word spoken and gesture made. He won't even let Geoffrey coax him near those nights. Not with any sort of ease. He’ll exist on the periphery of sight and show his teeth when confronted, the whole of him wound so inescapably tight. A rattlesnake masquerading as a man, one misstep from lunging with fangs bared.

Those nights are rare. Far rarer than what is between them here and now. That man exists on a ledge, on the sharp brink of vicious expectation and violent defense. That man is more beast than beorc, wild in a way that even laguz do not share.

That man is just so harsh. So volatile. So unpredictable and incapable of ease. Volke is the essence of dangerous uncertainty those nights, will exist in this haze of fierce apprehension, unwilling to hear his name or bear the weight of Geoffrey’s eyes. Why he bothers to appear when so opposed to any company is so much a mystery. Maybe even to himself, since rarely can Geoffrey manage to strip him down and make him sigh.

This night is not the same.

This night Volke is willing to ignore the uncertainty of his flesh. To be coaxed towards light and love and warmth. That he has to be coaxed at all is a pity. If the decision were his Geoffrey wouldn't ever let him forget what it is to be held like this, to be pet and stroked and wanted every night and every day.

Geoffrey would treat him so in an instant, would without a single hesitation.  But that is only a fantasy. One too juvenile and farfetched to ever honestly consider.

Isn't the time to anyway.

Not when Volke begins to go loose beneath him. His eyes even shut, tacit permission for Geoffrey to do as he'd like.

Nothing more he'd like than to see this man sated, to see him as he usually is. With quiet amusement in his face and sharp fondness falling from his lips. With eyes that forever expect little but affection and pleasure from Geoffrey's hands. That is a Volke adored, a Volke that captivates and charms so effortlessly. So unconsciously.

Can't imagine he truly realizes how desired his presence is. How dear and cherished.

One day he might, if Geoffrey ever finds the right way to tell him.

Unlikely, and he certainly won't try tonight. Isn’t the time for words, or for anything beyond pressing an oiled finger into the depths of Volke’s heat and watching him quiver.

There is little in the world quite so satisfying.

The way Volke takes him, the quiet catch of his breath when Geoffrey presses deep. He’s not loose enough to be comfortable, to enjoy this yet, but it is almost as if the touch alone is enough for him to be undone. Or maybe it is just the continued proof that he is valued so, that Geoffrey would spend the time and care necessary to make the act of their pleasure less an ordeal.

It is never more evident than in these moments of how little Volke truly expects.

One day Geoffrey will know why. He will take every secret Volke is willing to spare and reform his expectations with tender hands and quiet words. He will devote time and attention and affection all until Volke never again grows uncertain in Geoffrey’s arms, until he can speak aloud his desires without the barest hesitation and expect nothing but satisfaction in return.

Another fantasy. A fiction Geoffrey often tells himself when the curiosity sparked in Volke's wake is just too mammoth to bear.

His blood is too heated for much curiosity tonight. Too swift, too _insistent_ , as insistent as his cock where it hangs heavy and ignored. And ignored it will remain until Volke is rocking himself back against Geoffrey’s fingers, until he's so desperate to be taken that his heels dig into the bedding as his reddened lips part.

A few moments more and the bedframe begins to creak. A quiet whisper of sound soon eclipsed by Geoffrey’s thrumming blood, by the irrepressible rumble of appreciation that escapes when Volke pulls him near by his throat and reintroduces Geoffrey to the talents of his tongue. He’s just so _eager_. So ready and wanting, the whole of him devoted to this closeness, to the press of Geoffrey’s fingers and the marriage of their lips. His hips begin to roll quicker, and his breath finally stutters when Geoffrey’s teeth glide down the edge of his jaw. 

Strange that so bare a sound can invigorate Geoffrey to his very core.

His fingers slide free and are hastily cleaned of oil on the sheets. Volke doesn’t make another sound but Geoffrey still shushes him as he lifts away, the entreating curve of those dark brows too charming to ignore. “Not going far.” The assurance isn’t really necessary. Neither is the final kiss taken before Geoffrey moves back between the known warmth of parted thighs. Truths both, but the way Volke’s lips curve in brief fondness are worth any and every effort ever given.

An undeniable fact, no matter how much Geoffrey fought with that knowledge when this closeness first began. A struggle then, but so far from one now. Certainly now, when he hasn’t the attention for anything beyond lifting Volke’s hips and again taking of his heat.

To enter him is still a glory. No matter how many times Geoffrey has done the same.

Volke goes tight all over. His fingers in the bedding, the crease of his eyes in the candlelight, even his thighs where they now rest on Geoffrey’s either side. Maybe in discomfort, maybe in mounding anticipation; but whatever the cause his tension falls away in another breath. He doesn’t even watch, the stubbled line of his throat bared as he lets his head go slack against the pillows.

Oh, but he is a sight.

One side dappled in shadow and the other aglow in candlelight, he is night and day in the same skin. A contrast all himself right now, though that’s hardly so rare. Cold and then inescapably warm, indifference followed by such sudden sweeps of humor, distant and then so near as one body and another can ever hope to be. Volke is all these and more, is often so _frustrating_ a man, but Geoffrey can’t help but be addicted regardless. To his quiet smiles. To the danger that will gleam at the corner of his eyes. To every instance of his laughter, of his pleasure and honest joy.

The last is something rare. A treasure. A moment cut in crystal and held forever holy in Geoffrey’s chest. A memory he’s not even sure that Volke knows he has.

Not that he needs to.

It is enough that he counts these chambers a haven, that here he can let his eyes close and his edges dull. That here he can exist how he likes. Whether taking of Geoffrey’s attention or holding himself separate, he has never been disallowed from knowing sanctuary within these walls. Geoffrey might not always have the patience to deal with his colder moods, but he’s never chased Volke way. Some nights early on he just didn’t have the nerve; nights when Volke would be tucked away in the far corner, a wall to each shoulder and a naked blade in his hand. Other nights when he would take two steps away for every one that Geoffrey went forward, when his mask wouldn’t come low and his eyes never lifted from Geoffrey’s hands.

It is still disheartening, even alarming, to have ever been considered a threat. No matter how slight that uncertainty, no matter how momentary and rare that unease, to be recoiled from by another chafes at Geoffrey like nothing else quite can. He is a knight, a man of honor so much as he can be, and that…that sort of retreat just sours his stomach so entirely. Even the recollection is oftentimes enough to turn his gut.

And it would be tonight if not for how Volke lazes beneath him now. Calm. Quiet. Unthreatened and so clearly at ease.

So beyond the grasp of uncertainty that Volke has an arm over his eyes.

Even hidden he is beautiful. Striking and exquisite in every measure. 

The strong line of his jaw excites and the curl of his chest hair lies soft beneath the stroke of Geoffrey’s palm. His chest lifts solid and swift beneath the touch, and swifter yet as the heat between them flares so bright and high. His lips part. The chords of his throat stretch taut. His body glows lithe and lean, every flex of his flesh lit in the quiet light of the candle.

He is such a sight. A sight too gorgeous for Geoffrey to last.

Though he never does when he's been brought to the edge and then left to boil.

Volke doesn't mock him, never has. He silently weathers Geoffrey's sudden grip and stuttered breath, the whole of him so easy and still until the fire within finally banks. And even then he only strokes Geoffrey's jaw and takes kiss after kiss after leisurely kiss. Such tender attention given until Geoffrey again grows thick and firm.

Strange that Geoffrey can love him for something so small. For so bare a consideration. One never shown the first and last time he and Elincia laid with one another. They'd tried to at least, but he'd never quite managed to touch her. Not when he'd been set aflame in the same manner as he had tonight. Brought to the brink and left to wait as they'd sought a venue more private than an abandoned corner of the library.

Geoffrey had never known shame quite so deeply as he had soon after in her chambers. When Elincia'd finally reached for him again and then laughed in startled dismay when he'd finished against her thighs.

There had been no time to change her impression, to make up for his unbidden lapse. A servant had been heard in the hall, or maybe Lucia had come calling. Hard to recall what exactly had taken Elincia away, the crown then so clearly more a part of her than Geoffrey had ever been.

A realization then ignored, swept aside in the wake of treason and war.

No reason to think on affections wasted, not when Geoffrey has this man in his arms. When every moment with Volke is so often a pleasure, even if not one always borne of heat and flesh. His quips can startle Geoffrey from the darkest mood, his hands will soothe away where burden has become stone in Geoffrey’s shoulders. His very presence is so much a balm, a relief in more ways than can possibly be named.

He is all this and more, none of which Geoffrey will ever speak aloud. On that path lies disaster, and this that exists between them is just too precious to ever be risked. All fact. Truths too bitter to be false. Geoffrey is not so fortunate a man, to know love and be loved in turn. This heat, the way this incredible man moves against him, the way Volke will mold himself against Geoffrey’s side at night and let himself be counted as company during the day, all treasures that cannot be chanced. That will disappear like morning fog in wake of the sun if Geoffrey does not keep himself in check.

Often it’s not so difficult to leash his words. Certainly not now, when Geoffrey is more concerned with retaking Volke’s hips and lifting him from the sheets.

To enter him a second time excites no less than the first.

They come together like they never parted. Volke doesn’t go tight this time. He’s so pliant and loose, eyes lidded and fingers half curled into his palms. His lips are dark again, and he draws the bottom one between his teeth as Geoffrey watches.

Maybe Volke does it on purpose, or maybe it’s just a tell of his enjoyment. Either way Geoffrey moves straighter on his knees and presses within quicker, louder, the slap of their flesh an invigoration in and of itself. The frame begins to creak again. Volke’s hands fist in the sheets. His eyes are shut now, but his pleasure is still so incredibly plain. Geoffrey even has half a thought to put him on his knees, to bite at his spine. To see how the muscles of Volke’s back flex with every rut of Geoffrey’s cock, to watch his forearms go to the sheets when he finally buckles beneath the surging tide of their pleasure.

But then he would be hidden again.

Geoffrey wouldn’t be able to see the parting of his lips or the shallowness of his breath. He wouldn’t see the way Volke’s stomach goes taut, or how his cock juts thick and eager between them. Geoffrey wouldn’t know that he wants to be close, to be held, nothing clearer when Volke then leverages up on one arm and reaches with the other.

Geoffrey doesn’t deny him. Couldn’t ever.

He drops to his elbows and pushes forward on his knees, the movement of his hips lessened but far from stilled. Geoffrey encases Volke in his arms and tucks down against a stubbled throat, where he can feel the rapid flutter of Volke’s heart and every catch of his breath. Geoffrey presses there with his teeth, with his tongue and lips, determined to etch a claim that Volke will feel in the morning. A token he can touch and wonder on, that will remind him of how he spent his night and of how easily he could spend another doing the same.

Volke could spend every night like this. Caressed and held close, as adored a creature as these chambers have ever known. Treasured. Cherished. Kept well, kept warm, kept so very content and secure. Geoffrey would keep him so at once. Would ply him with love and attention and protection all, no matter how unnecessary the latter. He would in a single moment, without the barest hesitation, if Volke’s heart was his to hold.

It isn’t, but Geoffrey might love him enough not to care.

He doesn’t know, and he’ll never know. He’ll also never be disappointed. So long as Geoffrey is careful, so long as he is patient and capable of holding his tongue. If this is truly love it is nothing to be tried, nothing to let crumble in wake of unneeded words. Volke is just too necessary to lose. He is something holy. Even divine. A being far more worthy of worship than the goddess ever was.

Geoffrey almost laughs aloud at the blasphemy.

Hard to when his chest is this tight, each breath as rapid as the pace of his heart. He's already so close. Teetering on the edge of pleasure in repose.

He's close, but Volke is closer.

Fact. Undeniable.

And then absolute when Volke finally sighs, his breath a warm wash through Geoffrey’s hair. His arms clutch tight, his stomach gone taut as his thighs press as would a vice on Geoffrey’s either side. He’s so incredibly warm, so beyond gorgeous in his ecstasy. Geoffrey cannot even see him now, pressed so _near_ , as near as he possibly can. But he knows, he’s so sure, has never been so certain of himself as he is in this dear man’s presence, as he is when-, _oh goddess_ , as he _forever_ will be when they-.

“ _Mercy,_ ” Geoffrey breathes, Volke clutched to his chest with all the strength his arms possess. There are no half measures in his passion. He has no more restraint, no more patience to deny himself. He is a man unmade, destroyed and forged anew in the unyielding heat of Volke’s embrace.

As he always is.

As he would forever gladly be.

But that, again, is a fantasy.

A fantasy that sings in Geoffrey’s blood, that threads through his every breath, that pulses so thick and insistent with each beat of his heart. A desperate yearning that razes him whole as he drowns beneath the inescapable haze of their completion.

A haze that dissipates long moments later, when cool air sweeps across his shoulders and Geoffrey becomes once more aware.

Sweat chills in the small of his back, and then against his brow when Geoffrey turns towards the source. A glorious feel, relief given when the heat of passion becomes more suffocating than desired. The curtains are parted when he opens his eyes, the edge of one caught and held open on the front of Volke’s ankle. Geoffrey just can't resist the warmth that encases his heart whole. Warmth that spreads to every extent of his being when he notes the slow pass of a hand through his hair. A hand that slides down his shoulder when Geoffrey pushes up on his arms and finally slides free of Volke’s heat.

Volke just yawns beneath him. His body arches as he stretches, sated leisure in every plane of his flesh. Geoffrey would stroke the contour of his chest again but they are both just too hot. He sits back on his heels and reaches to part the curtain further, his flesh coming alive in so different a satisfaction when awash with the cool air of his chambers.

He glances back at a touch, and cannot help but smile.

Volke doesn’t see, too focused on his self-claimed task. He’s using his shirt instead of forcing Geoffrey to get up for a cloth, the evidence of his pleasure cleaned from Geoffrey’s stomach with strokes heavy enough not to make flesh prickle from the overwhelmed sensation of a fleeting touch.

Oh, but Geoffrey loves him for this too. For the unwavering accommodation; for the way Volke always makes him a priority without words, maybe even without conscious thought. Geoffrey’s not even sure why, unless this is just Volke’s way. To repay satisfaction and patience in courtesies nearly too subtle to be noticed.

That is exactly his way, actually. Volke knows not the language of gratitude, or of how to make verbal his contentment. It is hardly a wonder that he retreats in the face of spoken appreciation, when he has so little idea of how to manage the same.

Not that he needs to. This is enough. More than enough, Volke’s continued presence all Geoffrey really needs to know that he is counted as company worth the keeping.

Perhaps that says something unsavory about him, that Geoffrey is a cutthroat’s chosen haven.

Disgracing, perhaps, but he is far too enamored with this particular cutthroat to be shamed. And far less juvenile in his judgments of others than he was years ago.

Or maybe Geoffrey just doesn’t care.

A thought he shies from, and then disregards entirely when Volke lies back against the sheets. He yawns again and tosses his dirtied shirt away, the curtains billowing as it passes through. That he might spend the next days in Geoffrey’s clothing is far more satisfying than it should be.

As is the stretch of reddened skin beneath Volke’s jaw.

Geoffrey has a sudden thought to mark him anew. To bite possession down the length of his chest and across his stomach, to pet and stroke and touch until Volke is again undone, until he pants and keens and quivers into the twilight hours.

But he didn’t appear for that sort of attention, and Geoffrey’s honestly too tired to give it.

Volke rarely humors such prolonged pleasure anyway. Just as he refuses to humor Geoffrey’s attempt to move from the bed. He snaps up with all the swiftness of a viper, nothing shy in the grip he then has of Geoffrey’s arm, "Don't-."

It is forever sweet how Volke will quiet beneath a kiss.

His eyes are yet sharp when Geoffrey pulls away. So sharp and endearingly sullen. Rare to see him so, even if exhaustion can be the only cause.

Still makes Geoffrey smile. "Only be gone a moment." He slips off the mattress before Volke's grasp can tighten further. Takes less than that promised moment to snuff the candle and gate the hearth. Geoffrey doesn’t bother checking the balcony doors or the entrance to the hall. Even tired Volke is a man of constants, both likely locked long before Geoffrey knew he would spend the night with such pleasant company.

Volke hasn’t even laid back down by the time Geoffrey returns to bed.

Geoffrey snorts, but any playful attempt to make him wait is immediately wrecked when he is reached for, both of his arms gripped and tugged too swiftly to refuse. The curtains flutter behind him as he’s manhandled to Volke’s side, the bedding jerked up a moment after. His shoulder then becomes another’s property; the whole of Volke tucked so close as he hides against Geoffrey’s throat. Only in the wake of their pleasure is he this demanding. Volke wants what he wants and he will not be denied.

Geoffrey can’t imagine ever denying him a single thing.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t humored by the display. "Impatient," he quietly chides.

Volke clearly doesn't care. He is sated, is at as much ease as he ever is on such a night. He is still so much a shadow, but now a shadow at rest. Held close, held dear, there is nothing more he can possibly require but for slumber to take him hold.

Geoffrey isn’t so far from that same release. His eyes are heavy, his flesh sated, his skin made warm by a man he might cherish above all others. There is little else he requires to be content. That truth even if this closeness is only temporary. He knows they won’t be like this in the morning, won’t be pressed so tightly together that the chill of night is nothing. Volke might not even be here, but may have already left before the sun rose, no farewell given beyond a feather light kiss that Geoffrey isn’t always fortunate enough to wake up for.

A disappointing thought. Not one to dwell on.

Be foolish to when Geoffrey can feel Volke now, when every breath is a familiar warmth against his shoulder. When he can turn his head and press lips to a scar never spoken of.

Shouldn’t, but maybe he’ll ask about it in the morning.

Unlikely, but maybe Volke will even be there to answer.

 


End file.
